Epilogue (Written for the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, 1887) by Alfred Tennyson (Poem, Summary, Paraphrase & Analysis)

 

Epilogue (Written for the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, 1887)

by Alfred Tennyson

(Poem, Summary, Paraphrase & Analysis) 

Epilogue

[Spoken by the Poet]

I.

Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!

Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

 

No light had we: for that we do repent;

And learning this, the Bridegroom will relent.

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now—

 

No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!

O let us in, that we may find the light!

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

 

Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet?

O let us in, tho’ late, to kiss his feet!

No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.

 

[Spoken by the Rector]

II.

And were this lived to-day, as it is writ,

The world would call it half a childish dream;

So weak, so wild, so worn, so steep’d in tears,

That men would say it had not once been mine,

Save that I let it go. But o’er my head

The midnight passes, and the darkling hours

Bring on the morn; and thus I speak and close.

 

[Spoken by the Poet]

III.

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,

Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea—

Glory of virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong—

Nay, but she aim’d not at glory, no lover of glory she:

 

Give her the glory of going on and still to be.

 

The wages of sin is death: if the wages of virtue be dust,

Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly?

 

She answered, “The wages of sin is death: if the wages of virtue be dust,

 

Surely the wages of virtue is life—hereafter!’’ And I

 

I go on to the glory of God, to the glory of God.

 

[Spoken by the Poet]

 

IV.

Nor of the living only, but of the dead,

How dark the strife! and yet how glorious!

 

She fought her fight, she kept the faith, she won.

We too may win by patience. Day by day

The life of man is sworn and driven down

In heartless toil to build a fancied heaven

Upon the earth; but she, the Queen of old,

Labour’d for living souls, for human hearts,

For life eternal; hers the purest aim,

Her love was human, her devotion God’s.

 

[Spoken by the Poet]

V.

Look to the end! How glorious!

 

O dear and mighty Mother, crown’d of old,

 

Now in thy winter of a thousand years,

 

Even as a lion in the height of noon,

 

With thunder on thy mane—

 

The nations echo round thee,

 

“Rule, Britannia! rule the waves!

 

Britons never shall be slaves!”

 

[Spoken by the Poet]

VI.

Clearly the Old is dying, and the New

 

Is being born aloft: and underneath

 

We feel the pangs and throes of mother-earth,

 

And see the serious trouble of the times:

 

But that hath been which never yet hath been;

 

And that will be which never yet hath been:

 

And that will live which never yet hath lived:

 

And in the days to come, when I am gone,

 

Some younger poet, in a happier hour,

 

Born in a statelier age than mine, shall sing

 

“Glory of Britain, Glory of the Queen.’’

 

Summary

Night has fallen. A small group of weary travelers hurry toward a grand hall where a celebration is taking place. Inside, the Bridegroom waits, and the doors are nearly shut. The travelers knock desperately, calling through the darkness: “Late, late, so late! Let us in!”

They explain that they had no lamps, that they are sorry, that they only want to see the light and kiss the Bridegroom’s feet. But a voice from inside answers again and again with the same cold certainty: “Too late. You cannot enter now.”

The scene fades. A minister—an old rector—reflects on the story he has just told. He imagines how people of the modern age might dismiss it. They would call it childish, sentimental, or tired with too many tears. They would say he was mistaken to share such a tale. Yet, as the night moves forward and dawn begins to brighten the sky, he will not revise what he has spoken. He simply finishes, and rests.

Then a poet rises. His words begin to drift across the world like a wind across an endless sea. He speaks of glory—glory earned by generals, by orators, by singers—and how even the greatest praise is only a momentary echo. He recalls a woman who worked not for applause, but for goodness, for humanity. She never chased fame. The poet imagines her standing before the question of what virtue earns. If sin earns death, and virtue earns only dust, who would endure the struggle? Her answer was simple and strong: virtue earns life—if not here, then beyond. And so the poet walks on, stepping toward the glory of God.

He remembers those who have died, as well as the living. Their struggles were fierce, but their victories shone. Among them stands a Queen of long rule—patient, determined, resolute. While others spent their lives building illusions of heaven on earth, she labored for souls, for hearts, for eternities. Her devotion was steady, her cause higher.

Again the poet calls out to Britain, old and mighty. He imagines her like a lion resting at the height of noon, thunder rolling through its mane. The echo of nations surrounds her: “Rule, Britannia! Britons never shall be slaves!” The call is both pride and warning, strength and memory.

Time moves. The poet speaks of a world in change. The old order is crumbling; a new one is being born. Underneath it all, the earth itself groans—like a mother straining in labor. The moment is painful, turbulent, uncertain. Yet he senses that history is turning toward something never seen before. Things that have never lived will live.

He knows he will not witness it. One day he will be gone, and someone younger, living in a grander age, will sing with renewed voice:

“Glory of Britain, Glory of the Queen.”

 

Line-by-line Paraphrase

 

 (I) — Spoken by the Poet

 

Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!

- It is very late, the night is cold and everything is wrapped in darkness.

 

Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.

- It is very late, but we believe there is still time for us to get in.

 

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

- You are too late; you cannot come in anymore.

 

No light had we: for that we do repent;

- We had no lamp prepared, and we are sorry for that.

 

And learning this, the Bridegroom will relent.

- When the Bridegroom hears this, surely he will take pity on us.

 

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now—

- It is still too late; you cannot come in now.

 

No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!

- We have no lamp, it is so late, and the night is cold and dark.

 

O let us in, that we may find the light!

- Please allow us to enter so we may reach a place that is bright.

 

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

- No, it is too late; you cannot come in any longer.

 

Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet?

- Haven’t we heard that the Bridegroom is kind and gentle?

 

O let us in, tho’ late, to kiss his feet!

- Let us in, even if we are late, so we may show him respect and devotion.

 

No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.

- No—still too late; you are denied entry.

 

 (II) — Spoken by the Rector

 

And were this lived to-day, as it is writ,

- If this story happened today exactly as told,

 

The world would call it half a childish dream;

- People would dismiss it as naïve or childlike fantasy.

 

So weak, so wild, so worn, so steep’d in tears,

- They would say it is overly emotional, confused, and full of sorrow.

 

That men would say it had not once been mine,

- They would insist someone else must have written it,

 

Save that I let it go.

- Except that I published it and claimed it as my own.

 

But o’er my head

- But above me

 

The midnight passes, and the darkling hours

- The night moves on, and the dim hours slip away,

 

Bring on the morn;

- Bringing the morning closer.

 

and thus I speak and close.

- So I say these words, and end.

 

(III) — Spoken by the Poet

 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,

- Warriors, speakers, and poets all have their kinds of honor and fame,

 

Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea—

- But these rewards fade quickly, like a sound disappearing over a limitless ocean.

 

Glory of virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong—

- Virtue has its own glory: to battle, to endure hardship, and to correct injustice,

 

Nay, but she aim’d not at glory, no lover of glory she:

- But she never sought fame—she did not care for glory.

 

Give her the glory of going on and still to be.

- Give her credit for continuing faithfully, simply existing true to her purpose.

 

The wages of sin is death: if the wages of virtue be dust,

- If sin earns death, and virtue earns nothing but decay,

 

Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly?

- Would she have the courage to endure hardship for a life no better than that of insects?

 

She answered, “The wages of sin is death: if the wages of virtue be dust,

- She responded: “Sin brings death, and if virtue ends only in dust,

 

Surely the wages of virtue is life—hereafter!”

- Then surely virtue must be rewarded with life in the world to come!”

 

And I

- And I

 

I go on to the glory of God, to the glory of God.

- I continue forward in service of God’s honor.

 

(IV) — Spoken by the Poet

 

Nor of the living only, but of the dead,

- Her concern was not just for the living, but also for those who had passed away,

 

How dark the strife! and yet how glorious!

- Their struggles were tragic, yet noble.

 

She fought her fight, she kept the faith, she won.

- She persevered in her own battles, stayed true, and triumphed.

 

We too may win by patience.

- We also may succeed if we endure patiently.

 

Day by day

- Every day,

 

The life of man is sworn and driven down

- Human life is worn out and pushed downward

 

In heartless toil to build a fancied heaven

- By endless labor meant to create a false earthly paradise

 

Upon the earth;

- Here in this world;

 

but she, the Queen of old,

- But she—Britain’s long-reigning Queen—

 

Labour’d for living souls, for human hearts,

- Worked on behalf of real people, their spirits and feelings,

 

For life eternal;

- Always with eternity in mind,

 

hers the purest aim,

- Her purpose was pure,

 

Her love was human, her devotion God’s.

- She loved humanity, but her dedication belonged to God.

 

(V) — Spoken by the Poet

 

Look to the end! How glorious!

- Look at the conclusion of her life and reign—how magnificent it is!

 

O dear and mighty Mother, crown’d of old,

- O ancient and powerful Britain, crowned long ago,

 

Now in thy winter of a thousand years,

- Now in your old age, after a millennium of history,

 

Even as a lion in the height of noon,

- You stand proud like a lion at its strongest,

 

With thunder on thy mane—

- Your mane rumbling with power like thunder,

 

The nations echo round thee,

- All the nations around you repeat the same cry,

 

“Rule, Britannia! rule the waves!

- “Britain rules the seas!

 

Britons never shall be slaves!”

- The people of Britain shall never be enslaved!”

 

(VI) — Spoken by the Poet

 

Clearly the Old is dying, and the New

- There is no doubt: the old world is fading away, and a new era is being born,

 

Is being born aloft: and underneath

- Rising above us; below us,

 

We feel the pangs and throes of mother-earth,

- We sense Earth struggling like a mother in childbirth,

 

And see the serious trouble of the times:

- And we witness the deep turmoil of our age.

 

But that hath been which never yet hath been;

- Yet something utterly new has already appeared,

 

And that will be which never yet hath been;

- And more will come that has never existed before,

 

And that will live which never yet hath lived:

- Something alive will emerge that has never lived before.

 

And in the days to come, when I am gone,

- And in the future, when I am no longer alive,

 

Some younger poet, in a happier hour,

- A younger poet, living in a better age than mine,

 

Born in a statelier age than mine, shall sing

- Born into a more glorious era, will lift his voice and say—

 

“Glory of Britain, Glory of the Queen.’’

- “Praise to Britain, praise to her Queen.”

 

Analysis of Alfred Tennyson’s Epilogue

Alfred Tennyson’s Epilogue, written for the Golden Jubilee of Queen Victoria in 1887, is a complex poem that moves between theological warning, historical reflection, and patriotic exaltation. The poem does not speak as a single voice; instead, Tennyson uses alternating speakers—the Poet, the Rector, and the Poet again—to create a layered landscape of spiritual, moral, and national thought. Through this framework, he positions the reign of Queen Victoria as the moral culmination of Britain’s political existence and, at the same time, as a symbol of an era passing into the unknown. The poem performs a balancing act: it celebrates empire, honors faith, and meditates on mortality, all while acknowledging that the future may surpass the present in ways unimaginable.

The opening section, spoken by the Poet, employs the parable of the wise and foolish virgins from the New Testament. The scene presents desperate voices calling from outside a door that has already been shut. Their repeated cry—“Late, late, so late!”—reveals their panic and regret. The Bridegroom’s refusal, though harsh, represents divine justice: those unprepared cannot enter. Theologically, this becomes a warning against complacency, procrastination, and spiritual negligence. The refrain “Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now” is more than dramatic repetition; it functions as a moral refrain, an audible barrier that separates the saved from the unprepared. The Bridegroom’s sweetness, mentioned later in the stanza, appears almost as a final, desperate bargaining chip from those outside: even if we are late, let us still enter because He is kind. The denial that follows emphasizes that mercy has limits when divine judgment has begun. Within the context of the Jubilee, this opening is not merely religious imagery. It reminds Britain that its glories—military, intellectual, cultural—are meaningless if they exist without spiritual discipline or moral preparedness.

The Rector’s brief meditation in the second section breaks this parabolic drama and shifts into a contemporary mode. He reflects on how modern society, skeptical and rational, would dismiss the kind of religious storytelling he has just voiced. The Rector’s lament—“The world would call it half a childish dream”—places the poem within the Victorian crisis of faith. By Tennyson’s time, England was wrestling with Darwinian science, biblical criticism, and industrial modernity. Faith was no longer accepted unchallenged; it was debated, doubted, and often mocked by intellectual elites. Thus, the Rector becomes a spokesman for the faithful traditionalist who fears that moral stories no longer persuade. He does not argue, however, that the world should think differently; instead, he simply records its attitude and resigns himself to it. As the midnight passes into dawn, the Rector implies that time itself may justify what religion tries to teach. Spiritual truths, ignored or ridiculed in prosperity, may reassert themselves when darkness falls.

The third section returns to the Poet and pivots dramatically from personal salvation to historical greatness. Tennyson explores the nature of glory—military glory, civic glory, artistic glory. All of them, he claims, are fleeting, like a voice that disappears into the endless sea. The imagery portrays human achievement as ephemeral and unsteady. War heroes may be remembered for a generation, orators may stir a crowd for a week, and poets may be praised for a few decades, but all such honors eventually dissolve. Yet Tennyson distinguishes these worldly forms of glory from the glory of virtue. Virtue is labor without expectation of applause, enduring moral pain, repairing injustice, and persisting without reward. The poem’s central figure—the unnamed “she”—is Queen Victoria herself, but Tennyson carefully refuses to present her as seeking recognition. Instead, he elevates her as representative of moral constancy. Virtue, in her understanding, awaits its reward not in earthly acclaim but in heavenly continuance. She speaks the theological doctrine that frames the poem: “If the wages of virtue be dust, surely the wages of virtue is life—hereafter.” In other words, moral effort must point toward immortality, or it becomes unbearable. Virtue without heaven collapses into absurdity; only divine reward gives meaning to sacrifice.

The fourth section develops Victoria’s legacy, expanding her from symbolic Queen to almost saint-like figure. Tennyson contrasts her concern for “living souls” with the secular energies of her age. He criticizes the relentless pursuit of a human-made paradise—industrial growth, empire, technological supremacy—built on suffering. Men, he says, wear themselves out in “heartless toil” to make their earthly utopia. Against this, the Queen represents spiritual leadership. She acts not for material progress alone but for the eternal well-being of her subjects. Her service is grounded in compassion and faith. In Tennyson’s framing, this makes her a beacon in an age that often worships machinery, wealth, and expansion. He attributes to her an intention that is purifying rather than imperial. His Queen does not conquer for conquest; she governs for redemption.

The fifth movement broadens the poem from individual virtue to national identity. Britain becomes “dear and mighty Mother,” a lion crowned by history, shaking thunder from its mane. The speaker is no longer meditative; the language becomes celebratory, even triumphant. The echo of “Rule, Britannia!” reaffirms imperial confidence. Here, Tennyson indulges in patriotic rhetoric, honoring a nation that stood at the height of global influence. The lion metaphor is poignant: Britain is proud, powerful, but also aging. The empire is likened to an animal in its noon strength—even though sunset is on the horizon. The implicit tension is striking: Britain is both victorious and vulnerable. Its greatness is real, but greatness alone cannot secure permanence.

The final section introduces the poem’s most uneasy dimension. Tennyson acknowledges that the Old is dying and the New is being born. The world is changing, and its transformation is painful. The imagery of childbirth—earth herself convulsing—suggests that progress is not smooth evolution but violent transition. The past cannot be preserved; the future cannot be stopped. In this frame, Queen Victoria’s reign, and even Tennyson’s own poetic era, are prelude to something greater. The poet humbles himself before the possibility that future voices will surpass his own. He imagines a young poet living in “a statelier age” who will sing of Britain in new terms and with new power. The humility here tempers the nationalism of the preceding section. The empire is not eternal, and neither is the poet. Time will replace both. The arrival of the unknown—new nations, new voices, new orders—cannot be resisted.

Thus, Epilogue ends neither in triumph nor despair but in transition. It is a poem balancing reverence for the past, reverence for the divine, and acceptance of change. Tennyson honors Victoria not because she conquered the world but because she embodied moral patience in a world full of noise and ambition. He cautions Britain that pride without spiritual grounding will fall, and he warns modernity that dismissing faith may cost it its soul. Yet he also acknowledges that history moves forward, and that poets—and kingdoms—must one day yield to those who come after them.

In this sense, Epilogue is not merely ceremonial verse. It is a meditation on the fate of civilizations: how they rise, how they erode, and how their memory is reshaped by those who inherit them. Its central question is not “What has Britain accomplished?” but rather “What is worth enduring when all accomplishments fade?” By tying the life of a Queen to the fate of a nation, and by connecting both to the eternal rhythms of salvation and mortality, Tennyson creates a poem that is at once celebratory and prophetic. It looks backward to loyalty, upward to God, and forward to the undiscovered future—acknowledging, with both humility and hope, that the future may improve upon all that has come before.